Circe

I had intended to blog about a conversation I had a few nights ago. I'd already written my post, but saved it in the wrong format for the Moroccan cybercafe computer to open. I'll leave you instead with a quote by Olga Broumas, from her poem "Circe."


What I wear in the morning pleases
me:green shirt, skirt of wine. I am wrapped

in myself as the smell of night
wraps round my sleep when I sleep

outside. By the time
I get to the corner

bar, corner store, corner construction
site, I become divine. I turn

men into swine. Leave
them behind me whistling, grunting, wild.